


The Real Advantage

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 09:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: Sherlock left John's wedding early but someone's looking out for him.





	

Title: The Real Advantage.

Author: Sirius Blue

Rating: PG

Spoilers: The Sign of Three.

Warnings: Just for unrequited love.

Summary: Sherlock left John’s wedding early, but someone’s looking out for him.

A/N My first Sherlock fic. Be kind…

Dedication. To Duchess Cloverly for her amazing videos, igniting Mystrade in my head and inspiring the many-chaptered fic currently giving me labour pains…

Sherlock managed to keep his composure throughout the seemingly endless journey back to Baker Street.

The black cab dropped him at the door and he stumbled as he got out, his hand already scrabbling in his pocket for his keys. His hands were shaking almost too badly to fit the key in the lock but he managed it, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be back hat night, he had all the solitude he needed. Solitude to grieve, solitude to get high. Anything to ease the crushing sadness in his chest.  
Slowly, like an old man, Sherlock climbed the stairs to his flat and fumbled for the light switch.  
Someone had beaten him to it.

Mycroft stood in front of the fireplace, immaculate as ever but without the usual exasperated expression he usually wore when confronted with his little brother.

Instead his eyes were full of understanding and compassion and that was what finally broke Sherlock.

Sherlock sank to his knees, an animalistic howl of grief torn from his throat. Then came the tears. So, so many of them each dragged from the pit of his soul.

“Oh, Sherlock,” sighed Mycroft as he crossed the room in swift strides and eased Sherlock to his feet by grabbing him by the elbows.

Sherlock’s arms went automatically round his big brother, blindly seeking comfort as he continued to cry and he trembled violently as if he were being electrocuted.

Mycroft held him, rubbing his back and making soothing noises. He remembered doing this when Sherlock was small and his big brother was the centre of his whole universe. But this was a bit more than a skinned knee and it would take more than a fraternal hug to fix it.

Sherlock’s tears slowed and stopped and he rubbed his face on Mycroft’s shoulder, relinquishing his tight grip. Mycroft’s arms dropped to his sides.

“How did you know?” asked Sherlock sharply.

Mycroft handed him the freshly laundered handkerchief from his trouser pocket before replying.

“When you rang me earlier today. Even though you know how much I abhor social gatherings you wanted me there. I knew you would end up back here sooner or later and this was where I needed to be. It wasn’t a difficult deduction, little brother.”

“I’ve lost him forever, Mycroft.” It was a bleak statement.

“I warned you not to get so involved.”

“I fell in love,” said Sherlock, wiping his bloodshot eyes. “It wasn’t exactly something I planned. I was willing to give my own life to protect him. Two years I’ve been away and everything is different. But I still love John Watson, despite the fact that he got married today and I told them both that Mary is pregnant. I don’t think I can bear the pain of it.”

“You must. This is the price you pay for becoming such a cliché. Falling in love with your  
best friend. The best thing you could ever do for Doctor Watson is keep quiet. You can never tell him.”

Sherlock looked stricken then rallied himself.

“You’re right, of course. At least I know what love is.”

Mycroft raised a sardonic eyebrow. “If this is what it does to you, I prefer to stay untainted.” Mycroft replied. “Now, do you have any decent glasses in this compost heap?”

“In the kitchen, “sighed Sherlock, finally slipping off his long coat.

Mycroft returned with two tumblers full of a peaty coloured liquid.

“Islay malt. I came prepared. It’s a wonderful tonic. I must say, brother mine, morning dress rather suits you.” He handed one glass to his brother.

Sherlock snorted inelegantly as he sprawled in his chair, downing half the contents of the glass in one swallow. Mycroft sipped delicately at his, savouring the divine flavours on his tongue but it wouldn’t do to get carried away. Not tonight.

He sat opposite his brother, in John’s chair, watching and listening as Sherlock talked and talked cathartically about John, his flatmate, his friend, his love.

As the level in the whisky bottle dropped Sherlock cried again, maudlin tears, Mycroft knew, but still painful to watch.

When Sherlock’s head began to droop mid-sentence, Mycroft knew it was time. He guided a, by now, very drunk Sherlock into his bedroom, divested him of the morning coat he was still wearing and rolled him into bed. Within seconds Sherlock was snoring. Mycroft made himself as comfortable as he could on the bedroom chair as he prepared for a very long night.

Next morning Sherlock woke to the hangover from hell. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee tempted him out of bed, managing to stand on the second attempt.

In the kitchen, he found Mycroft who silently handed him a teaming mug. The coffee was hot, black and sweet with a kick like a Galloway bullock. Sherlock nodded his thanks and surveyed his brother over the rim of his mug.

It had been a very long time since Sherlock had seen Mycroft looking anything other than pristine but this morning he had dark shadows under his eyes and his clothes were badly creased, a by-product of his night vigil.

“You look like hell,” croaked Sherlock. Mycroft sighed and gave his brother an all-too-familiar glare.

“Thank you for pointing that out. Now that I’m sure you’re not going to do anything stupid or reckless I am going home for a bath and some sleep.”

“Not to work?” asked Sherlock mockingly. “How will the country run itself?”

“The country will have to manage for an hour or two. Some things are much more important. Now, dear brother, promise me you’ll look after yourself”

“Don’t be ridiculous. When have I ever done that?”

“True enough, “sighed Mycroft as he pulled on his overcoat and retrieved his umbrella from under the sofa.

“See you soon, brother mine,” he said, making his way to the door.

“Mycroft…thank you.”

“I promised to always be there for you. This is me keeping my promise”

Sherlock sat in his chair resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.

“Nevertheless, thank you.”

As he walked down the stairs to the entrance to 221B, Mycroft smiled.


End file.
